I have always had a penchant for tiny clues of our vernacular history. I find these little remnants everywhere: scratches in the hardwood floor, names carved in headstones and inscriptions in the end papers of books. Seemingly everywhere there lies evidence of the ordinary people who came before us and proof that our lives’, like theirs’, are temporal and fleeting.
On Sunday mornings, I often find myself at the flea market digging through boxes of abandoned family photos. I dig until I am seized by a stranger, unmoored and long forgotten, smiling back at me. For a haggled fifty cents, I can take that stranger home to my studio where they unwittingly become my subject. I paint them in full, imagined color. The process walks a line between veneration and voyeurism. The finished painting warrants a permanence that the ephemeral snapshot could not. I make a painting and in doing so I fabricate a seemingly eternal cognizance of a previously forgotten stranger. The narrative is not quite real, but in time, that too, may be forgotten.